


Folk Night

by Anonymous



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M, Prompt Response
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-29
Updated: 2016-10-29
Packaged: 2018-08-27 18:20:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8411716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Dorian and Bull, who are in an established relationship, pretend to be strangers at a bar and try to pick each other up.Or they attempt to.





	

Marlon's been working at the Squeaky Weasel for six months that have felt like six years. He smells like stale piss. He's old, and he's tired, and he's just turned twenty three. He longs for the sweet embrace of death, or, baring that, the spontaneous combustion of every patron at his shitty bar. They don't even tip well.

It's Friday, not quite nine yet, and the band is just setting up. It's folk rock night, which Marlon actually unironically loves, but he went home with the band's guitarist week before last, and the guy didn't call even though he asked for Marlon's number. Marlon's been pretending to polish glasses at the far end of the bar for twenty minutes. He'd serve customers, but he hasn't got any. That's because nobody likes folk rock, except for Marlon, and possibly the guitarist that bruised his heart two weeks ago.

He's not fucking bitter.

The door to the bar opens, bell tinkling in the quiet of a failing business venture. Marlon doesn’t look up until the new customer crosses his line of vision, sitting down neatly in front of him. He’s human and older than Marlon, somewhere between ‘too old’ and ‘maybe’, dressed in low-collared shirt and pants that fit him so well they have to be tailored (not that Marlon would know). He smiles beneath a moustache that curls up at both ends, his eyes crinkling a little. His eyelids are a little sparkly. His liner is on point.

“Could I have a glass of your house merlot, please?” the man says.

His voice sounds like chocolate tastes.

“Sure,” Marlon says, and his voice doesn’t crack.

It really doesn’t crack. He’s a little impressed, but he’s still sad about The Guitarist, and there’s not much room for making a fool of himself in front of hot, older guys. He pours the patron a glass of a slightly nicer red than he otherwise would’ve, to make up for it. Guy looks nice. If he can’t show that through embarrassment, he can show it through wine.

 

~~~~~~~~~

 

Business picks up later, but only a little. A few more humans come in and settle down close to the band, probably friends with them, if their hollering is any indication. A dwarf from the local law office stops by for a glass of whisky that they stare despondently into for five minutes. The only interesting customer is the one who hits his horns on the door beam on his way in. He seems strangely unbothered by it, and Marlon contemplates telling him off for leaving dents, but he looks large from a distance and even larger close up. He has an eye patch and muscles that flex a little just from walking.

The guy has a smile like mischief, but the kind of mischief that ends with you being unable to find your underpants the next morning. Or would do, were one not still in the same throes of sadness as they had been roughly twenty minutes ago.

He sits down at the bar, right in front of Marlon, then looks down the line to the merlot-drinker that arrived earlier. The merlot-drinker looks up, noticing the new guy’s attention. He smiles a little, before turning back to his wine. The new guy smiles more broadly than before. Marlon feels a little like chopped liver, even though he doesn’t really want anyone’s notice. It’d just be nice not to feel overlooked. Again.

“Hey,” the new patron says. “I want to buy that guy a beer.”

“Sure you don’t want to get him another wine?” Marlon asks. “After he finishes this one…”

He was already on his second, and without eating anything between. It wasn’t Marlon’s place to judge, but that didn’t mean he didn’t see it.

“Yeah, give him a Ferelden beer, on me,” the patron says. “Unless it makes you uncomfortable.”

Marlon doesn’t say anything, but he does pause, unintentionally, in front of the taps.

“Alright, how’s about you give me two beers, and what I do with them is up to me,” the patron says.

“Are you gonna be weird if he doesn’t want the drink?” Marlon asks.

It occurs to him that it is probably not a good thing, if he feels so dead inside that he is capable of asking a customer that. His manager would probably call him up for it, but he isn’t in to see it. There is only Marlon. Embracing the darkness.

The patron blinks at him. He glances back down the bar, and then back at Marlon. After a moment he glances back down the bar again, and then sighs, audibly. He props his arms on the bench.

“Look, I won’t be _weird_ , I promise…” the patron says. “Do you get a lot of people coming in here, acting like that?”

“I dunno, maybe,” Marlon says.

“Maybe?”

“We can’t do refunds.”

“Kid, you sound a little down, are you ok?” the patron asks.

Marlon opens his mouth to tell the man that, yes, he is fine, he is more than fine, he is good and fine and ready to pour beer for any patron that might want it, for courtship or otherwise. He is fine, and he is dandy.

“No.” Marlon says.

 

~~~~~~~~~

 

The guy’s name is Bull.

“I shouldn’t care,” Marlon says. “But I really liked him, and he actually asked for my number, it’s not like I offered it to him…”

“Sorry kid,” Bull says. “That always stings… what was his name?”

“Phoenix. But his licence says ‘Rupert’, so, you know.”

“I’d probably change my name if I got saddled with something like Rupert.”

“I got Marlon, and I’m sticking to it.”

“He coulda lost it, you never know, maybe he hasn’t had time to stop by again and catch up.”

Marlon bites his cheek and looks down at the floor.

“He’s been here all night,” Marlon says, trying to keep his lips from wobbling. “His band’s playing.”

Bull hisses between his teeth and scratches lightly against his brow. He frowns in sympathy.

“Well that sucks,” Bull says.

“It does suck,” Marlon replies.

“Doesn’t help now, but there are other fish in the sea, and all that,” Bull says. “And plenty of them play guitar.”

“He was the best sex I’ve ever had.”

“How old are you again?”

“Twenty-three.”

“I don’t want to patronize you, but believe me, you’re going to have better,” Bull says.

Marlon feels, in spite of Bulls wishes, a bit patronized. He doesn’t bother to hide it.

“How would you know?” Marlon asks.

“I have a decade and change on you. You want a good night? Fuck a bass player.”

Marlon hears merlot-guy coughing, but he’s madly texting on his phone, not asking for a drink in the most assholish way possible.

“Or a mage, they’re freaks too,” Bull adds, speaking a little more loudly, for some reason.

“Bass player, you said?” Marlon asks.

“Oh yeah, strong fingers, good sense of rhythm and they can go for _hours_ ,” Bull says. “Or pick up a mage.”

“Why do you keep tacking on mages?” Marlon asks.

“ _Because I’m getting older, and they are very competitive when they think they have something to prove,_ ” Bull says, lowly, and somewhat intensely.

“Is there someone else here?” Marlon asks, looking around him.

Bull sighs, head tipping back for a moment. The muscles in his shoulders hunch when he brings his head forward again. It’s impressive.

“No, there’s… nevermind… look, this right now? These feelings? They’re real, but they’re not permanent. One day very soon you’re going to get up, eat your bran flakes, and wonder why you even gave this guy a second thought. And if you feel like taking my advice, that will be the day you pick up a bassist and get your mind blown.”

“Or a mage,” Marlon says.

“Or a mage,” Bull replies.

“Ok,” Marlon says.

“Feel any better?” Bull asks.

Marlon thinks about it. He takes a deep breath through his nose, and lets it out slowly.

“Yeah, I do,” Marlon says.

“Great,” Bull replies. “I’m glad.”

“Still want that beer?” Marlon asks.

“The cheapest Ferelden piss you’ve got,” Bull says. “I’m gonna need it.”

“Why?”

“Don’t ask.”

Marlon pours Bull two beers, and does it carefully, so there’s not too much head on it. Bull pays with a twenty, and when Marlon goes to give him his change, Bull waves him away.

“Keep it,” Bull says.

“It’s like ten bucks,” Marlon says.

“Just accept the tip,” Bull says, not unkindly. “And just so you know, that guitarist has been giving me the stink eye for a while. If he comes up here later, make him explain himself, he needs to know you have standards.”

Marlon smiles.

“Ok, I will,” he says.

“Good,” Bull replies.

“Good luck with merlot-guy,” Marlon says.

Bull snorts, clearly amused.

“Thanks,” Bull says.

He mouths the words _bass players_ as he walks down the bar, towards merlot-guy.

Bull sits down next to him without even asking, and merlot-guy doesn’t look particularly annoyed about it. He drinks the beer without a word of complaint.

When Marlon looks up at the band, Phoenix isn’t looking back. He finds he doesn’t care as much as he thought he would.

 

~~~~~~~~~

 

When the band finishes their set, Phoenix sidles up to the bar looking guilty. Merlot-guy and Bull are gone, having walked out of the bar with their hands on each-other’s asses minutes before. It was kind of cute, even if they were a bit old to be picking up.

“So,” Phoenix says. “Sorry I didn’t call…”

“Mhm,” Marlon says.

“I like, lost your number.”

Marlon rolls his eyes.

“You put it in your phone,” Marlon says.

Phoenix blanches. Marlon feels vindicated. Marlon feels _good_.

“Um,” Phoenix says.

“Um.” Marlon replies.

“You’re not making this easy,” Phoenix says.

“That’s because I have standards,” Marlon says.

“Oooooh!” Someone shouts, jubilantly, near the stage. Marlon thinks it’s the drummer.

“Look… if you want to call, call,” Marlon says. “But I don’t think you do.”

Phoenix looks like he’s been slapped with a fish. He’s still kind of cute, but the shine’s worn off. He looks more sweaty than windswept and interesting.

“But… fine,” Phoenix says. “Yeah, ok, sorry…”

“Take care,” Marlon says, and he kind of means it.

“Yeah, you too,” Phoenix replies, and it seems like he kind of means it too.

 

~~~~~~~~~

 

A day later, Marlon hooks up with the bassist from DeathJam, their Saturday metal-act.

 

~~~~~~~~~

 

He later finds out they’re a mage.

 

~~~~~~~~~

 

Bull was _totally fucking right_.


End file.
